I’ve decided to go public with my intentions: I will not be asking Ann Coulter for a date. There are some good reasons.

First, I’m married. Second, there is a substantial age differential. And, third, I fear rejection.

While reading Coulter’s book, How to Talk to Liberals (If You Must), I thought about the prospects.

I’ve decided to go public with my intentions: I will not be asking Ann Coulter for a date. There are some good reasons.

First, I’m married. Second, there is a substantial age differential. And, third, I fear rejection.

While reading Coulter’s book, How to Talk to Liberals (If You Must), I thought about the prospects.

A single, middle-aged guy who’s still trying to look like he’s in his 20s would make a perfect match. But before you pick up the phone to pop the question, there are some things you need to know.

Keep in mind, for example, that Ann Coulter is relatively good looking. “Relative to what?” you ask. “A ’58 Buick? Tapioca? Phyllis Schlafly?"

Yes.

You’ll also want to know that Coulter was born and raised in the Bubba Belt. That’s important. Not because she’s Ann Coulter, but because it’s a date. Any guy who’s opened the door for feminist, been called a chauvinist and then jabbed with an upper right (knee) knows all about this. Coulter is no feminist. You will open the door for her. And if you don’t, you may get jabbed with an upper right.

And that brings me to another announcement. Thursday, April 1, all the women of the world are to meet in my living room. If you are a feminist, you will be tattooed with an X on your forehead. If you are not a feminist, you will be marked with an O. That will end door-opening offenses for women and considerable pain for men.

Back to our date with Coulter.

You will pick her up at her stylish Washington, D.C. apartment, say, 5ish. When you first see the flow of long blond hair covering the left-side of her face [see photo here], you may want to raise your eyebrows twice. That’s body language. It means “hubba-hubba” in Bubbaland. However, the significance of the left-face covering should not be noticed. Just gaze into her gorgeous right eyeball.

The preferred date for the evening will be the NBA game. The Indiana Pacers will be playing the Detroit Bullets-oops-Pistons. Granted, it’s an unlikely event in Washington, but this is an imaginary date. Don’t get excited.

Small talk in route to the event will be in order. You will notice Coulter loves words that no one can use or understand, except for her and William F. Buckley, Jr. The most common is “felonious.” According the dictionary.com, the word is defined as “adj., relating to anyone Ann Coulter finds disagreeable.”

It also works well in titles. There was Alexander the Great, Richard the Lionhearted and, according the Coulter, Bill Clinton the Felonious Liar.

Sitting somewhere in the arena will be interesting. Coulter will glare with her right eye at the massive structure and lament that its lugubrious bathos was built with lachrymose tax dollars by schadenfreude liberals; all words found on pages 128 and 129 of her book.

Not to worry. Excuse yourself during the first fight and go to the gift shop in the lobby. You’ll want to buy a voice-activated electronic dictionary with a LCD screen. There is no gift shop, but there is the hair-coming-out-his-nose hotdog stand guy and — just your luck — he’s still got a few electronic dictionaries for $14.95; $16.95 with mustard.

Back in the stands, you can now understand Coulter. Contretemps, you learn, means, affliction; epiphanic means something akin to religious, and @#%&* (page 309) means Hillary’s serious about running for president.

Wise guy that you are, you’ll want to have a bit of humor ready when the Pacers and Pistons square off in row 12. While Artest is punching an epiphanic (page 105) fan in the nose, you will turn and look Coulter in the eye and quip, “Geez, I didn’t know these guys could play hockey!!”

If she sniggles (not in her book), you’ve made a hit. If she rambles on about why white hockey players don’t get fined for fighting because they’re, uh, white, then you’ve got a ways to go.

With the game over, it’s time to escort Coulter to a fine dining establishment. At your date’s behest, you mark Ben and Jerry’s off the list. Chinese sounds good and if you can’t understand your waiter, does it matter? You can’t understand your date, either.

The conversation turns to politics. (Who woulda known.) Coulter’s right eye gleams as she rants about feminist cornpones (page 235), gun owners’ rights and the need to squarsh the IRS like a bug. So far so good. You decide you may have met your match.

But then you bring up civil liberties and Coulter tussles her hair and – gasp! – she has a left eye after all. Her right eye now covered, she goes apoplectic over the smarminess of the war on drugs (pages 246 and 44.) “It’s not about drugs,” you explain. “It’s about personal rights.”

Her left eye glares.

“You know,” you add, “like the Patriot Act.”

Her left eye bugs out.

Enough is enough, you decide. Noting the O tattooed on her forehead, you get to pick up the tab. And the tip.

The evening ends when you walk Coulter to the door of her crib and give her a friendly kiss her on her tattoo. “No wonder,” you surmise, “the Libertarians in Connecticut didn’t want her on their ticket.”

Your conclusion is ineluctable (page 30.)

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